


Poison Burning Deep

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, RoboSam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hates surprises and surprises like some oversexed cultist freaks attempting to sacrifice him to their freak-nasty sex goddess <i>suck</i>.  They'd nabbed him in the woods, hunting him when it was supposed to be the other way around, and their poison is searing through his veins.  The only help around is the soulless son of a bitch pretending to be Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison Burning Deep

**Author's Note:**

> 2012 spn_j2_xmas gift for cassiopeia7. Likes used: Sam/Dean, RoboSam/anyone, fuck or die, first time.

Dean hates surprises. Surprises are Dad busting down the door at three in the morning and telling him to grab Sammy and whatever they can carry because they've got to go, then skipping out on two months rent. They're getting a baseball bat upside the head because he didn't check behind him when he knew he should have. They're Sam announcing that he's leaving for California and that's final. Surprises are never good. Surprises for Winchesters usually end with someone dead—or worse. Much worse.

Worse, like Dean's internal temperature gauge all shot to Hell and a fever burning him from the inside out. Worse, like Dean's body shutting down one internal organ at a time. Worse, like the only help around is the soulless son of a bitch pretending to be Sam. 

Surprises like some oversexed cultist freaks attempting to sacrifice him to their freak-nasty sex goddess _suck_. They'd nabbed him in the woods, hunting him when it was supposed to be the other way around, and their poison is searing through his veins.

The bed seems to spin underneath him and Dean cracks his eyes open to make sure that it's not. Sam's looking at him, expressionless—like he couldn't care less if Dean died or not, he's just here to watch. His head's tilted like a dog's. "Does it hurt?" he asks and he might as well be asking about the time.

"No," Dean rasps. He draws his knees up as pain stabs through his intestines, his arms wrapping around his middle, trying to keep himself from bursting into flames. _Fucking God shit damn motherfucking son of a whore_ —something twists in his gut and he bites into the bedspread.

"Coatlicue is a fertility goddess," Sam says. _At the tone, the time will be eight twenty-four._ "Childbirth. Death." _Eight twenty-five._ "It's not a bad guess."

"Fuck. _Off_." His mouth's too dry and Sam's not helping. He needs water. A lake. The fucking Atlantic Ocean. Pain racks him again. There's a twinge underneath it, a need like a junkie wanting a fix but Dean won't acknowledge it. Not yet—not ever, he corrects. He knows what it wants. Sam does too.

"It's more convenient to have you alive." Convenient, that's it. Like Dean's the corner 7-11 and Sam's willing to put up with his burnt coffee and price mark-ups because he doesn't feel like walking the extra two blocks to the store. Dean barks a laugh and regrets it when it mutates into a hacking cough. The bed dips beside him but Dean's too busy fighting off his own body to care.

Dean's burning up, like that crazy cult back in the woods had set him on fire instead of forcing him to swallow what had tasted like cough syrup. He'd choked on it, spitting it back at them, but they'd held him down and dumped more down his throat, until he'd felt like he was drowning. Ironic how it seemed to burn. He almost wishes that they would have just taken a match to him. At least then, it would have been all over by now, he wouldn't be dealing with it hours later. It had started as a slow burn, a warming of his insides that Dean had chalked up to indigestion, and inched up little by little until Dean was staked out in the desert sun, roasting alive, while still sitting in the Impala.

In the back of his head, he knows that Sam—pretend Sam, _Robo_ Sam—is right. He just doesn't want to hear it because if Sam had a soul, he wouldn't be suggesting it. This is just one more way that Dean's reminded that the guy he's riding around with isn't Sam. He looks like Sam, can even pretend to be him sometimes, but it's all just an act.

Hands touch him and they should feel hot but they're cold. They're whole degrees cooler than Dean's skin and Dean leans into them, forgetting who he is and who he's with. They feel so nice on his body, soothing, comforting, and he wants them to touch everywhere at once. His body thrums as the hands slip underneath his shirt and push it upwards. Then he opens his eyes again.

"God _damn_ it, Sam!" Dean rolls away, his temperature ratcheting right back where it was, the cultists' poison dissolving his insides. He tries to get to his feet and fails, flopping back on the bed. His brain is frying in his own head and he doesn't have the strength to fight Sam off. He shouldn't _have_ to; no should mean no should mean no and Sam, soulless or not, was his goddamned _brother_. He's shoved on his back and besides curling against the pain, Dean doesn't fight it.

Sam straddles him, his weight pressing Dean into the bed, and Dean moans as arousal spikes in him, skittering through his body, leaving him tingling and complacent. It's not all stemming from whatever the cult gave him, either, and Dean knows it—knows it like he knows that the heat inside of him is lava in his veins. The top button of his jeans pops free and his pants are yanked down past his hips, Sam moving with them. Dean kicks them off the rest of the way himself. They feel like they're melting to his skin, melding with the sweat and the heat. His socks go next and Dean's glad to have them gone, too. The underwear stay where they are, his hand clenching around the waistband as Sam tries to pull them down.

"You're going to die, Dean," Sam tells him, calm and unconcerned because he's just stating a fact, and the fear that Dean has been trying to suppress finally cracks his defenses, gushing through his denial. He fumbles for Sam's hands, paused at his hips, and grips them tight.

"Sam," Dean whispers, scared and dying and burning. Sam stares blankly back, empathy beyond him, and the anger surges forward again. It brings a last bit of strength and Dean clings to it. " _No._ "

"Yes," Sam says and takes the choice away from him. Dean's underwear is ripped out of his hands and dragged down his legs, then there's nothing between Sam and what he wants save a thin t-shirt that's covering nothing. Sam moves between Dean's legs, holding them open with his own body. 

Dean tries to struggle but his arms are cooked spaghetti. He doesn't even have the strength to sit up anymore, feeling used up and broken, and it brings it home all over again: he's _dying_. Again—he's dying again and Dean doesn't know what's waiting for him on the other side, he just knows that he doesn't want to see it. Heaven or Hell, it's all the same, just loneliness and lies and nowhere Dean wants to be. The fight drains out of him, his arms falling limply to his side. He takes a deep breath and lets Sam do as he wants. "Okay," he says. "Okay." The fire rages inside him.

Sam's hands are moving less-than business-like over Dean's skin because Sam doesn't understand things like guilt and shame anymore and he sees no reason not to enjoy this. To him, this is something that has to be done. Without the morals and societal expectations and pesky things like emotions cluttering it up, it's probably preferable to a lot of other things Sam has to do and, in that way, the less-than-improved Sam makes perfect sense. Dean wants to grab the mindset with both hands and adopt it for his own, wishes that he could.

Dean's still burning from the inside out but wherever Sam touches him, the fires bank, and Dean shudders, knowing that Sam is right. They have to do this. It's going to happen. Dean wants it to happen. Dean runs his hands up Sam's arms, whimpering softly as the heat flickers inside of him, and moves to Sam's face, cupping his jaw. Sam looks down at him and his expression's familiar in an odd way. Dean will take it. He urges Sam closer with weak little pulls and Sam obliges, bending to press their lips together, for a wet, tingling moment. 

Sam bites at Dean's bottom lip, tugging on it with an determined aggression that's pure him, and Dean closes his eyes, pretending for just a little while that Sam's whole and that maybe they've chosen to do this out of their own free will. It's wrong, it's sick, but it allows Dean to relax into the moment—to want this, want Sam because Sam wants him. When he puts it like that, it's easy.

The bed rustles as Sam braces a hand against Dean's chest and leans off the bed to grab a duffle off the floor. Dean watches him with hooded eyes. He doesn't move, just keeps his limbs where Sam left them, knowing that Sam will do whatever needs to be done. His eyes follow the long lines of Sam's muscles, cataloguing them with a careless appreciation. He's allowed to look; he knows what's about to happen and he's allowed to look.

The lube is ice cold when it touches Dean's skin or maybe it just feels that way. Dean hisses in shocked relief, his eyes fluttering closed as Sam's fingers smear the slick on him, teasing at his hole before sliding in. Dean's mouth opens wide, sucking in air. It feels odd having something inside him—odder, still, to know it's Sam. The finger twists and turns, invasive and probing, then presses upward and, for a minute, Dean can't feel anything but the pleasure that stabs deep into his gut. _Jesus fuck_ … His hands turn on the bed, gripping the sheets and pulling on them at two points. Sam slips another finger in and Dean's thighs tremble. It's all the prep he gets.

Pain rockets through Dean again when Sam pulls away, like hot knives sinking into him, and Dean tries to curl into a ball once again. Sam slaps a hand against Dean's stomach to hold him down, while his other lifts Dean's leg to lay over top of Sam's. Dean tries to squirm away—not from Sam but from the pain—but then there's a press of something blunt and hard against him and the searing ache fades. "God," Dean gasps, forcing himself to start breathing again. Sam doesn't wait. He pushes in, not caring if Dean's ready or not.

Sam's big, huge, monstrous, and there's _no fucking way he's going to fit_ , Dean thinks, panic bubbling up inside of him as Sam starts to sink into him, stretching him wider than what should be possible. Dean doesn't have to worry about the poison doing him in, Sam's going to beat it to the punch. Death by cock, Dean thinks hysterically, and isn't that just a way to go. Second, third, and fourth thoughts cross his mind and Dean braces a hand against Sam's stomach, as if that's going to stop Sam from pushing in deeper. A roll of Sam's hips and there's another inch sliding in, and Dean's scraping his nails against Sam's stomach, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to adjust.

The deeper Sam goes, though, the closer he gets to splitting Dean in two, the more the heat fades. It's almost bearable now, a tiny flame where there used to be a bonfire. "Sam," Dean says and then repeats it, quieter and quieter until it dies down, too. He wonders if they're through, if they've done enough, but he figures that they've already left the line in the dust. Sam doesn't seem like he's going to stop anytime soon, either.

There's no time to adjust, to get used to having something inside him, to wrap his head around the fact that that is Sam's dick up his ass. Sam just pushes all the way in, until he bottoms out, and Dean has a moment of amazement that it's in, then Sam's pulling out and slamming back in. Dean's eyes go wide and his muscles tighten, fighting not against Sam but against the feeling of helplessness, the feeling of someone using his body beyond his control. There's not much he can do to stop Sam, short of hurting him, so all Dean can do is lie back and take it.

Sam's getting into it, too, his breathing going all harsh and ragged, a growl in the back of his throat. He's holding onto Dean with both hands, one on Dean's hip, the other on his raised leg, keeping Dean in place while he's being fucked. Sam's strokes are quick but deep, pounding away like a jackhammer on pavement. The slap of skin on skin echoes in the room but Dean can barely hear it above his own heartbeat. Messed up, messed up, messed up, it tells him, but Dean doesn't know if it means the fucking or him because he's hard.

Jesus Christ, he's hard.

Dean groans and arches his back, lifting his hips to get a better angle while Sam keeps at it with a single-minded purpose. The pain's nearly gone, driven out by Sam's dick like there wasn't enough room for the both of them, and Sam was right. He was so fucking right. There's something in Dean that's yearning for this, that's sucking it all in, and he knows it's not the poison—that's just the excuse. Dean's hard-on is laying against his belly, bouncing with each thrust, but Sam doesn't care because Dean's not the one that has to come. Dean just wants to—and every now and then, Sam hits something inside of him that makes him think that he's going to.

Dean can feel Sam's stomach flexing underneath his hand, the muscles contracting and releasing with each rolling thrust, and he flattens his palm against the skin, needing the contact. He slides it upward, feeling out Sam's solidness, while his other hand grabs at his cock. Dean bites his lip as he grips it hard and firm, already trying to match Sam's rhythm. 

Sam's a runaway train speeding down the tracks with no brake in sight and Dean's right there with him, trying to keep up. He's leaking precome like a sieve, all slick and wet, pearling at the head and running down his shaft. Dean rubs his palm over the slit, coating his hand, and shudders as the sparks race up his spine. It feels so good, he does it again—and again and again and then he knows to hold on tight because the train's about to leave without him. Sam stutters, thrusts in hard, and Dean's seeing stars. 

Sam's panting non-stop and Dean's forgotten how to breathe at all. His mouth is open but the air catches in his throat and his vision is graying around the edges. He holds on tight, his hand moving hard and fast as his body tightens. He comes with a silent scream, his body contorting as pleasure racks his body. Come stripes his stomach, making a mess as he writhes. Through it all, Sam keeps going.

The only sign Sam gives that he knows Dean's come is a few harder thrusts, forcing his way back in after Dean tightens and then sliding back into the same rhythm he had before. Sam uses him like a blowup doll, shoving Dean's limbs out of his way and hauling Dean's ass closer and Dean lets himself go slack, his body falling wherever gravity and Sam want it to go. Small tremors ripple across his muscles—aftershocks—but Dean doesn't care. The bed's rocking underneath him and Sam's impossible to ignore but Dean almost feels as if he's in another place entirely, like he's not experiencing the scene, just watching it. He blearily rolls his head to look up at Sam. He's getting close. Dean can tell. It's in the way that he's not even looking at Dean but rather through him.

The next few thrusts are brutal, stabbing deep, and Dean winces as Sam's dick brushes against his prostate again, the pleasure intense enough to read as pain. Sam grips his legs and holds him close, his fingers leaving bruises on Dean's skin. Then he stills, his eyes fluttering closed, and Dean can feel Sam pulsing inside of him. From somewhere in Dean's head comes the thought that Sam didn't wear a condom but Dean pushes it aside. The last of his unnatural fever finally ebbs away, leaving him oddly cold on the sweat-soaked sheets.

Fertility, Dean thinks, his brain coherent enough to start completing thoughts again. Childbirth. Death. It's fucked up and if Dean gets fucking pregnant from this, he's going to come back and shoot some cultist bitches in the face. 

Dean groans as Sam pulls out of him, feeling used and weirdly empty. There's something leaking out of him and he grimaces. "That's disgusting," he says, his voice stronger than before.

The bed rises as Sam stands up. He stands beside Dean's bed for a moment, looking down at him, naked and not caring. "It worked," Sam says, like he doesn't even have to ask. Dean pulls a face and looks at the wall. He's not up for pretending right now.

Of course it worked. It had never been a question of it not working—more a question of the lines that they were willing to cross. Sam, though, doesn't understand that, not in his current state. He doesn't have the capacity to. A squeeze of fear grips Dean's heart as he thinks about what will happen when Sam's soul's back inside him. He sits up, needing the distraction. His ass aches, but it's not all together unpleasant.

"That was nice," Sam says and Dean cuts him a disbelieving look. Sam's actually smiling and Dean thinks he's going to be sick. "We should do it again."

"The fuck we are," Dean growls but he can't summon the anger to fill it with; he's too tired. There's a series of small bruises dotting his thigh where Sam held him. 

"You enjoyed that," Sam tells him and Dean pushes himself to his feet. He wobbles, his knees threatening to buckle before he locks them. He doesn't need Sam's little reminders that as fucked up as Sam currently is, Dean's worse. At least Sam has an excuse. Dean stalks to the bathroom, ignoring Sam's smirk when his first step stumbles, and slams the door behind him.

Sam's come is still leaking out of his ass, dripping onto his thighs, and Dean closes his eyes. He knows that Sam is right again. The fever's gone but there's still a heat burning inside Dean's veins, refusing to go away. It has nothing to do with cults and everything to do with Sam but it's poison all the same.

It's not that much of a surprise.


End file.
